SCENE v.

Cymbeline's Tent.

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pifanio, and Lords.

Cym. Stand by my fide, you, whom the gods have made Prefervers of my throne. Woe is my heart,

That the poor foldier, that fo richly fought,
Whose rags fham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast
Stept before targe of proof, cannot be found:
He shall be happy that can find him, if

Our grace can make him fo.

Bel. I never faw

Such noble fury in fo poor a thing;

d

Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought

But beggary and poor looks.

Cym. No tidings of him?

Pif. He hath been fearch'd among the dead and living,

But no trace of him.

Cym. To my grief, I am

The heir of his reward; which I will add

To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,

[To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. By whom, I grant, fhe lives: 'Tis now the time To ask of whence you are:-report it.

Bel. Sir,

In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen:

Further to boast, were neither true nor modeft,
Unless I add, we are honest.

targe]-targets.

a that promis'd nought, &c.]-whofe appearance gave no fign of fuch a difplay of courage.

bis reward;]-of that reward, which he fhould have received.

Cym

Cym. Bow your knees:

Arife my knights o' the battle; I create you
Companions to our perfon, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates.

Enter Cornelius, and Ladies.

There's business in these faces :-Why fo fadly
Greet you our victory? you look like Romans,
And not o' the court of Britain.

Cor. Hail, great king!

To four your happiness, I must report queen is dead.

The

Cym. Whom worse than a physician
Would this report become? But I confider,
By medicine death may be prolong'd, yet death
Will feize the doctor too.-How ended fhe?

Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life;
Which, being cruel to the world, concluded
Most cruel to herself. What she confefs'd,
I will report, so please you: These her women
Cantrip me, if I err; who, with wet cheeks,
Were present when fhe finish'd.

Cym. Pr'ythee, fay.

Cor. First, fhe confefs'd fhe never lov'd you; only

Affected greatnefs got by you, not you:

Married your royalty, was wife to your place;

Abhorr'd your person.

Cym. She alone knew this:

And, but she spoke it dying, I would not

Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

h

Cor. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With fuch integrity, fhe did confefs

knights of the battle;]-now ftiled Bannerets.
trip me,]-catch me tripping, detect me.
bore in hand]-affected, pretended.

R 4

Was

Was as a scorpion to her fight; whose life,

But that her flight prevented it, fhe had
Ta'en off by poison.

Cym. O most delicate fiend!

Who is't can read a woman?-Is there more?

Cor. More, fir, and worse. She did confefs, she had
For you a mortal mineral; which, being took,
Should by the minute feed on life, and, ling'ring,
By inches wafte you: In which time the purpos'd,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
O'ercome you with her fhew: yes, and in time,
(When she had fitted you with her craft) to work
Her fon into the adoption of the crown.
But failing of her end by his strange absence,
Grew shameless-defperate; open'd, in despight
Of heaven and men, her purposes; repented
The ills the hatch'd were not effected; so,
Despairing, dy'd.

Cym. Heard you all this, her women?
Lady. We did, fo please your highness.
Cym. Mine eyes

1

Were not in fault, for fhe was beautiful;

Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart,

That thought her like her feeming; it had been vicious, To have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter!

That it was folly in me, thou may'st say,

And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prifoners; Poftbumus bebind, and Imogen.

Thou com'ft not, Caius, now for tribute; that
The Britons have raz'd out, though with the lofs
Of many a bold one; whofe kinfmen have made fuit,
That their good fouls may be appeas'd with flaughter

Of

Of you their captives, which ourself have granted:
So, think of your estate.

Luc. Confider, fir, the chance of war: the day

Was yours by accident; had it

gone

with us,

We should not, when the blood was cold, have threaten'd
Our prisoners with the sword. But fince the gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives.
May be call'd ranfom, let it come: fufficeth,
A Roman with a Roman's heart can fuffer:
Auguftus lives to think on't: And fo much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only
I will entreat; My boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransom'd: never master had
A page fo kind, fo duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occafions, true,

So feat, so nurse-like: let his virtue join

With my request, which, I'll make bold, your highness

Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,

Though he have ferv'd a Roman: fave him, fir,
And spare no blood befide.

Cym. I have furely feen him;

k His favour is familiar to me:-Boy,

Thou haft look'd thyself into my grace, and art
Mine own. I know not why, wherefore, I fay,
Live, boy: ne'er thank thy master; live:
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,
Fitting my bounty, and thy ftate, I'll give it ;
Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,
The nobleft ta'en.

Imo. I humbly thank your highness.

Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad; And yet, I know, thou wilt.

i feat,]-adroit, clever.

* His favour is familiar to me:]-I am well acquainted with his

countenance.

Imo.

Imo. No, no; alack,

There's other work in hand; I see a thing
Bitter to me as death: your life, good master,
Muft fhuffle for itself.

Luc. The boy disdains me,

He leaves me, fcorns me: Briefly die their joys,
That place them on the truth of girls and boys.--
Why ftands he so perplex'd?

Cym. What wouldst thou, boy?

I love thee more and more; think more and more What's best to afk. Know'ft him thou look'ft on? fpeak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?

Imo. He is a Roman; no more kin to me,

Than I to your highnels; who, being born your vassal, Am fomething nearer.

Cym. Wherefore ey'ft him fo?

Imo. I'll tell you, fir, in private, if you please

To give me hearing.

Cym. Ay, with all my heart,

And lend my best attention.

Imo. Fidele, fir.

What's thy name?

Cym. Thou art my good youth, my page;
I'll be thy mafter: Walk with me; speak freely.

[Cymbeline and Imogen walk afide.

Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death?

Arv. One fand another

Not more resembles: That fweet rofy lad,

Who dy'd, and was Fidele-What think you?

Guid. The fame dead thing alive.

Bel. Peace, peace! fee further; he eyes us not; forbear; Creatures may be alike: were't he, I am fure

He would have spoke to us.

Guid. But we faw him dead.

Bel. Be filent; let's fee further.